


Soulmates, the Word Pranced in His Head, Mocking Him as the Gods Above Laughed

by kiwin_vyk1



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwin_vyk1/pseuds/kiwin_vyk1
Summary: He left without a word, throwing coins to the sorcerer and refusing to acknowledge the idea of loving a Demacian, especially that one. Yet, he had to clutch his chest as the jabs ripped his essence from his mere mortal body.
Relationships: Talon Du Couteau/Quinn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Soulmates, the Word Pranced in His Head, Mocking Him as the Gods Above Laughed

**Author's Note:**

> :^)

He could only hide in the shadows as a useless dog, stalking from afar. The gritty chase rendered the Demacian exhausted, seeking refuge in an insecured spot. How foolish. He dropped silently from his perch, into the dark to siege her wrist and body further from the chasing threats. His gloved hand clasped against her mouth, muting her shrieks. Each point of contact sent a shock throughout his hands and chest.  
The Noxian thieves ran past the two, checking the fool’s former hideaway, but not their current. As soon as they were gone, he threw the Demacian away, into a brick wall, knocking her breath. From the cold floor, she eyed him, her apathetic savior. He responded with a glare, observing the Demacian’s weary canvas of crimson. A rival, Quinn, Demacia Wings, her name danced in his thoughts. Their first meeting led him to believe the trickster gods played with his life, laughing at his situation as he stood slack-jawed at the physical sensations he felt.  
They had fought, all that they knew to do; she was fueled with the spirit of her origins, while his motives were to live another day, to find his father. Yet, it all crumpled when his blade dug into her nape, his body flushed to hers. He could never forget the sparks, how she made him feel, those cursed golden eyes shining in his darkness. No matter his purpose, the spite for life burning bright around him, he could not bring his hand down against her. And he knew she must have felt those sensations too, because she had not struck in his times of weakness, in the numerous moments they had met. But did she understand how the gods have cursed them so?  
“What are you doing here?” he growled lowly. The woman got up and brushed herself off.  
“I appreciate the assistance, but I must be going now,” she headed towards the other end of the narrow alley, unknowingly towards a labyrinth of snares. There was a sense of purpose in those eyes, gleaming with worry.   
“Do you wish for death to grace you? You’ll fall by the hands of your enemies,” he said, feet shallowly into the ground, unbelieving of the ill-advised Demacian that stood ever so proudly. How she survived was a miracle to him, to shake her fists at Kindred and claw her way out from hell. It was only a matter of time until she will collapse on her folly.   
She did not answer, rather she returned a sharp scowl and continued on her obscured path. He cursed, a fool she was, and a fool he is to follow behind. What was it about her that made him feel such a way, to concern himself with an enemy?   
“You have no faith in me, Couteau,” she said, refusing to turn to look at the man, who trailed behind her. Of course he held none for her, to trust blindly means to lose. Yet his actions, was that not what he had done? He had recklessly trusted the Demacian to not shoot his heart. They trekked in circles, her path had no clear destination. A waste of time, he grunted, her purpose unclear as her eyes darted to the skies then to the ground.   
“What are you searching for, scout?” he picked his pace to match hers, his footsteps silent against the stone ground. Her erratic investigations proved that it was no human she was searching for, unless it be a flying midget. She turned to him, wide eyes filled to the brim with nervousness. She was scared, her arms trembling though no danger was deemed close enough to strike.   
“Valor is missing.” Ah, she cherishes her feathered companion, trusting that bird with her life, willing to risk everything for it. He found it ludicrous to trust an animal, a creature which relies only on its instincts. She grew frantic, searching up and down the walls of Noxus. Talon averted his gaze from the scout, pitying her, for her roc was a Demacian eagle, no doubt to be shot down immediately on sight. As his path continued to trudge behind her, the distance growing ever so slightly, he nearly doubled over at an agonizing pain in his chest, that left as quickly as it came. Had he grown ill? No, now is not the time, he must catch up for the Demacian’s safety.   
Quinn had checked herself at an inn near the outskirts of Noxus, under a false name. It took quite some trouble to convince her to resume her search for another day, as her body grew weak from exhaustion. Her eyes lacked its usual luster. Yet, she still remained outside, despite the warmth provided by the sanctuary, to call for her companion. With one last warning, scolding her to rest her overworked mind, he walked away with growing pains in his chest in each step.  
He stood in an archive of knowledge; he required information, to understand, was that not his life’s purpose? Yet rather to find the missing general’s whereabouts, he paused as the book resided in his hands, it was to fathom the sudden anguish he felt. Stories upon stories did not precisely explain his condition, the medical records provided only false leads of facts. Would he be forced to consult another? Must he be incompetent to scout for knowledge to the point where his own life had been seized from his bare hands and given to the devil to toy with? He slammed the old book shut, dust jumped then slowly fell to settle.   
The isolation of the library echoed the noise as the wind howled from the opened window, reminding him of his aloofness. He had the whole night to study, alone and frustrated. There were too many topics, however, with no where to start and no discerning path to find the answers. His hand rummaged through his long hair, tangling the mess more, as he grabbed another book filled with potential from the wooden shelf. His fingers dragged across the old parchment, highlighting the headings to find even an inch of useful information, flipping each page in haste. Worthless, his time wasted once more. He exhaled loudly, the only sign of life in the large room. He recalled a time when the library bloomed with souls, house servants chasing the dust bunnies from the stories they came from, a time where he and his siblings caused mischief and their mess cleaned up after a brief scolding from their father. Their father, Marcus, a wise man indeed. After his disappearance, Katarina kept the residence tidy, but dismissed the servants. Cassiopeia had already permanently moved to Shurima, caring less about the Du Couteau’s family and more on her own selfish motives. His sisters had lost faith in the notion that their father might return. His thumb brushed against the textbook that only brought him dismay, dirt pricked against his digit; he returned it back to its original placement. He took the next in line from the shelf, continuing his hollow search.  
“I thought I heard something in here, why must you never declare your presence, rather to enter like a dog?” Katarina appeared through the old doorway, yellow light illuminating behind her demeanor, arms folded as she leaned against the wooden frame. She alluded to the open window which invited the cold air in. He pursed his lips together, into a light-hearted smile, because of all people, she must have understood why, “I am an assassin, Katarina, stealth is my forte.”  
“Even in your own abode? You are wild as life is not always filled with foe. Learn for once,” she said, her footsteps echoed against the floor, making her way towards him. He furrowed his brows, wanting to pull his weapon out to aim at her neck, questioning what had fallen upon the true Katarina Du Couteau, the one who never trusted. He knew, though, that life can change a person, for better or worse.   
Her sharp green eyes observed the document in his hands, the title faded yet legible, “Are you ill?”  
Talon returned a glare, his brown eyes bored into her soul, yet she remained closed, unreadable. Only will her story opens when she wishes, but never her priority; a wise choice as no friend or foe can stab through her steel exterior, wise yet lonely. His reflection was the only thing he could see from her eyes. He glanced back at the book in his hands, shutting it close, for he knew that there was only meaningless text awaiting him. “And if I am? No apothecarist may cure what has befallen on me.”  
She rolled her eyes, accusing him of being dramatic. He only replaced the leeway on the shelf with the information bound by leather, and he pushed past her, heading towards his own quarters. Until his bust betrayed him once more, it was similar to the sparks he felt from the Demacian, yet different in that it wrought misery rather than addiction. He knelt from the feelings. Feelings that he could not explain, feelings that drove his mind paranoid. There were no coughs, no hindrance of breath, instead an ache to his soul.   
“Do you suffer from a heart attack?” Her words replayed in his mind, it was a simple answer, to call his sufferings a mortal name, yet his mind had set his despair as otherworldly. He could only question why. Maybe the next day, he will receive answers from healers. Picking himself up, the aches lingered ever so quietly.  
“Do not concern yourself with me, my health is stable.” He only prayed for rest that night, for peace in his own mind.   
There was no time to waste as the early morning signaled to attend towards a healer. The crowd shuffled away as his natural scowl warned of their swift fate. The streets were rough, there were uneven cobblestones underneath him as it led him down his path. A healer he searched for, although rare in the harsh cities of Noxus, he easily spotted one nearby, though not painlessly.  
“You are fine physically and mentally,” the healer, who conjured magic for the aid of others, informed him, “though, your soul is troubled.” Impossible, his body was not tampered with yet his soul was broken and in disarray? Which spirits decided to meddle with his life once more?   
“Ah of course, I must explain further. Your soul has found a companion, one that could cure the woes you have suffered from, your soulmate if you must set a name. Yet it is distraught as your companion’s soul does not reciprocate those same feelings, but I assure you, the person in question has those sparkling sensations also. Just unaware of your circumstances. It’s quite unfortunate indeed, unrequited love is a painful experience,” she said. Soulmates, the word pranced in his head, mocking him as the gods above laughed.   
He left without a word, throwing coins to the sorcerer and refusing to acknowledge the idea of loving a Demacian, especially that one. Yet, he had to clutch his chest as the jabs ripped his essence from his mere mortal body. 

Why was it when he was with her his fits seemed to leave him? Only her presence graced him with serenity as her smile shone brightly on her face, the smile that melted his frozen heart. The reckless Demacian had wandered back into the rivaling empire’s land and got herself injured once again. Scolding her seemed to never waver her decisions in the slightest, Talon should stop aiding her after her mistakes. However, her golden eyes called to him, and no matter how much he resisted, he always came back.  
Despite their history, he could not help but admire her unprejudiced treatment of him. How often she would allow her guard to falter, as if she felt safe in the enemy’s arms. Likewise, whenever he caught sight of her, he received waves of unexplained feelings, ill and comfort. Why must the apothecarist stand correct?  
“Could be an allergic reaction, maybe to the feathers?” She doesn’t understand, but neither did he. Yet, he stayed by her side during each sunset and sunrise as they met in secrecy. Maybe one day, he hoped, they wouldn’t have to covert, rather to be at peace with one another. Possibly even a future. Talon’s lips transformed into a frown, it was an outlandish thought for him, out of character.   
Her head cocked to the side as she observed new thoughts forming on his face, “Why the frown? What are you thinking?” His hand traveled to sweep her short locks from her face, which resided in his lap. What to say? He was not sure himself, Quinn had a charm on him that hindered him to think properly.  
“I am fine, go back to sleep, scout,” she gave a playful pout at the nickname. Her peaceful figure placed the Noxian in a trance, an urge to protect her from any danger overcame him. She remained safe in his arms.  
Were they even friends? In his lonesomeness, he furrowed his brows as he recalled his bittersweet memories of the scout, in the comfort of his own home. Why must every recollection of her feel like a fever dream? The skies were empty, stars shining just as bright as Quinn in his darkness. They were night and day, opposites in every way, never meant to intertwine. Yet, here they were, in the hands of fate that speaks of their belongingness. The gods promised that their life was meant to be spent joyfully with one another; the pains in his chest without her does not lie. He sighed as he rested against the wooden table’s side.  
“The traitorous, stone cold bastard fell in love,” a familiar redhead emerged from the ajar door, taunting him.   
“Better than that accursed Crownguard,” he retaliated. She was as much of a hypocrite as he was, always berating each other of their heart’s choices. Katarina scowled, “Remember where your loyalties lie.” The footsteps faltered as it echoed, indicating her absence. Fresh air might refresh his thoughts, he leaped outside the window.   
Talon did not plan on encountering the scout that midnight, rather he wanted leads regarding his father, and the scout? Only the maker knows what she planned, her nose sneaking into each and every Noxian affair along with her hawkish eyes. Those eyes. They greeted him with such a warm welcome, yet his eyes only returned with an uninviting glare. With such crucial information on the line, she must not ruin the situation.   
Sneaking in through the roof of rubble, the darkness masked their presence. From afar, two men clad in metal discussed a cult. It bored the Noxian assassin, providing him yet more useless information, but the Demacian was engrossed in absorbing as much as she could. Until, a certain general’s name was mentioned, intriguing Talon to stay. Yet, the scout’s face immediately twisted into shock, warning the man they must leave. He could not foresee why, not until he was struck from behind.   
An ambush, the Noxian soldiers knew they were being spied on. Blades clashed as arrows flew, yet Talon’s mind was clouded. How, how did they know and who were these men? The enemies bore the semblance of Swain’s men, yet there was a sinister aura behind them. He fought, nonetheless, for his life and the scout’s. Gore covered the concrete floor and decorated the walls causing a slick field, but he plunged his arm blade further into a body.   
It was a thrill, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Knives flung into the sides of soon-to-be corpses, some engraved into the brick walls. Wounds adorned his body. A cry wailed out from behind him, a Demacian struck to the ground, an axe soon to behead her. Yet the weapon dropped as slack hands now held it, with a fatal slice to the nape. He aided the woman up, but her balance stumbled, her leg had been gravely injured. Her spirit remained, sending bolts of fury in each of her shots. Talon dodged, parrying each attack while protecting the Demacian, his only ally in this battlefield.   
The last body collapsed onto the bloodstained floor as his arm blade dripped with life. He faced his companion who attempted to stand despite her grievous wound, her pants torn around it. He made his way towards her to silence her attempts, damn Demacian, must she be so haughty? Tearing fabric from her garments, he bandaged her major injury. Cuts adorned her face, as her eyes flickered to his. No doubt his features were also stained by red.   
Looting through the bodies provided no knowledge. No identification, no documents, no orders, as if the soldiers were expected to fall. He growled under his breath, those who fought so hard for their lives were only considered expendable, like pawns in a game. The Demacian limped to the illuminated tunnel, her fragile body resting upon the stable walls as it guided her towards the exit. She lingered, waiting for him to follow up. Despite the war, a feeble smile danced across her lips. He accompanied behind her, for the ruins had no place for them there anymore, unless they wished to be fed to the beasts. As they left, he peered behind them, sensing a presence yet was only met with the wind wailing and the gloomy facade of the rubble.  
“You fought sluggishly,” Talon commented, eyeing her quiver still full of ammunition, “if your mind was any more distracted I could only assume you wished to perish.” He was well versed with the way she fought, easily vaulting against opponents and critically striking. Her face contorted with pain, his words ignited fire into her soul.   
“Do you hold ears only for your purpose? While you remained hard of hearing, the enemy discussed of an animal hostage the cult held, they planned to kill him. Valor is going to die, I have to go save him,” tears cascaded down her cheeks as she scolded him further. Her actions proved her vulnerable, but her eyes were consumed with enmity. The Noxian man boiled with rage. Does the foolhardy always enjoy waltzing into their demise? Unless the Demacian was a rare exception, dragging him along to her fate. “If I stand deaf, then you must be lustful for the reaper’s company,” he stated, yet she would not sway. Her mind must be clouded with denial, lest she desired to fall for the glaring bait. How could this woman be soul bound to his? All the Demacian loved was the bird, even more than her own existence, the woman compelled to be daft, persisting on saving a mere ally until both of their lives were taken away.  
“You can either help me, or leave me,” she walked off into the night, her body brimming with bitterness. He remained where he was. 


End file.
